"What dew ye want?" demanded the latter, sharply.

Mrs. Poor curtsied very low, and smiled a vague, abject smile of
propitiation.

"If ye please, marm, I'm Mis Poor. He's in this ere jail fer debt.
He's kinder pulin like, Zadkiel is, an I jess fetched daown some yarbs
fer him. He's been uster takin on em, an they doos him good, specially
the sassafras. An I thort mebbe, marm, I mout git tew see him, bein ez
he ain't a well man, an never wuz sence I married him, twenty-five
year agone come nex' Thanksgivin."

"And I want to see father, if you please, marm. My father's George
Fennell. Is he very sick marm?" added Prudence eagerly, seeing that
Mrs. Poor was forgetting her.

"I don' keer who ye be, an ye needn' waste no time o' tellin me,"
replied Mrs. Bement, her pretty blue eyes as hard as steel. "Ye
couldn't go intew that jail not ef ye wuz Gin'ral Washington. I ain't
goin ter hev no women folks a bawlin an a blubberin roun' this ere
jail's long's _my_ husban' keeps it, an that's flat.

"I won't cry a bit, if you'll only let me see father," pleaded
Prudence, two great tears gathering in her eyes, even as she spoke,
and testifying to the value of her promise. "And--and I'll scrub the
floor for you, too. It needs it, and I'm a good scrubber, Mrs.
Woodbridge says I am."

"I'd take it kind of ye, I would," said Mrs. Poor, "ef ye'd let me in
jess fer a minit. He'd set store by seein of me, an I could give him